


Everything's Apples and Honey

by corrupted_quiet



Category: South Park
Genre: Engagement, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Fluff, Food, Holidays, Jewish Holidays, Kissing, M/M, Rosh HaShana | Jewish New Year, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 07:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15945044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corrupted_quiet/pseuds/corrupted_quiet
Summary: It's Rosh Hashanah, Kenny's cooking up some plan to sweeten Kyle's new year.





	Everything's Apples and Honey

No, Kyle isn’t always the perfect Jew. He knows the important blessings, but doesn’t spend his days _daven_ ing. He stays kosher for the holidays, but eats _treif_ during the week. He values the Torah’s teachings, but doesn’t observe all six-hundred-thirteen _mitzvot_. He’s worn his _tallit_ only a handful of times since his bar mitzvah, and his yarmulke sports an embroidered Denver Nuggets logo. So maybe he isn’t a darling yeshiva boy like his extended family hoped, maybe he’s considerably more secular than his Connecticut-bred cousin, maybe he’s snubbed by a few upset Haredi relatives for _‘going gay for a goy’_ ; none of that makes him any less Jewish, or any less of a Jew.  

Rosh Hashanah, the start of a new year, heading the high holy days, when everyone listens to the shofar blow and speaks with fluttering sweetness. No matter what, everything feels _fresh_ , autumn’s breath rejuvenating, with wishes of _l’shanah tovah_. As a kid, Kyle happily traded his textbooks for a _machzor_ , but half-heartedly followed along, clearly enunciating every _ayin_ and _het_ without thinking much of the prayers they formed. He got older, though, and he started examining the liturgy, noting the meaning, finding a sense of comfort. These days, Kyle leaves synagogue feeling warm, even when the temperature outside dips close to freezing, protected by the light festive spirit. Sure, the tone sobers come Yom Kippur, fasting from sunrise to sunset and focusing on _teshuvah_ ; until then, dulcet melodies echo through the air, round challah rises in the oven, and everything is apples and honey.

This time around, things are a little different. Moving back to South Park after college wasn’t part of the plan, but life doesn’t like sticking to a plan. Sometimes it sucks, like when he changed his major last minute and had to cram finishing his requirements. Sometimes it doesn’t, like when he told Kenny about his not-so-platonic feelings and found out things weren’t one-sided after all. All that matters now are the two names on the lease, the two degrees on the wall, and the two silver bands on their fingers. Well, that and quelling Sheila’s numerous concerns about the wedding they haven’t set a date for or plotted out in any way. Kyle nearly rejected his parents’ offer to join them at shul, dreading her badgering more than the few hours of chanting, but Kenny nudged him to accept.

_“Ike’s in Boston, she’s empty-nester-ing hardcore, if ya got with ‘em they’ll feel a lil’ better. And you can get me some extra of those honey sticks.”_

Kenny’s always been respectful, just a part of who he is, how he is. Over Passover he joins Kyle in eating matzah—which he claims doesn’t taste like cardboard—and over Chanukah he willingly watches _Eight Crazy Nights_ —which he calls a true act of commitment. He doesn’t normally suggest Kyle do anything, though. While Kyle joined Gerald and Sheila for the first day morning, he couldn’t shake that inkling of suspicion lurking in his mind, Kenny damn well up to _something_. As the rabbi shared his thoughts on the calendar change, Kyle debated what the hell Kenny might be plotting. If anything, Kyle knows him _too_ well, coming up with a wide range of examples and concluding, grudgingly, that Kenny is a goddamn _wild card_ , so _every_ possibility _on the table_ and _in play_. And, no matter how much he racks his brain, Kyle _won’t_ figure out what he’s up to, only frustrate himself into a frenzy.

Fuck, why is he so in love with this asshole, again?

Kyle made Gerald drop him off out front, told him not to bother popping in to say hi to his soon-to-be son-in-law. A precautionary measure on Kyle’s part, in case Kenny’s surprise involves any upfront X-rated content. Those sorts of shenanigans, according to Stan, are what ruined their rooming arrangement in college; apparently living with two best friends becomes significantly less awesome when the two of them start banging. While Stan might think the two of them deserve a little mental scarring themselves for once, Kyle prefers his parents know the bare minimum about his and Kenny’s sex life. And there’s no need to start the year off with anything overly awkward or horrendously mortifying, right?

Nothing seems off as he enters to the house, although Kyle didn’t pay much attention when he stumbled out so early. When he left Kenny was still in bed, barely awake when Kyle slid out of the covers. He was conscious enough when Kyle kissed him goodbye, letting out a low childish groan as lips pressed to his forehead. Kyle doubts he flew out of bed too soon after, but, as they say in Disney’s _Hercules_ , people do crazy things when they’re in love. That line was written for Kenny.  

Kyle gets out his keys, shoves them in the door, turns lock. Acknowledging click, a few steps, then soft shut. The living room looks unchanged, a few sounds come from the kitchen, but a _smell_ permeates the house, an all too fragrant scent.

_“Hey Ken, I’m home.”_

Kenny can’t cook, suffering from a complete culinary handicap. Every time he tries, something ends up charred, scorched, and burning. When the two got together, Kyle made him promise to stay the hell out of the kitchen, reminding Kenny that the sole reason he passed Home Economics was because Kyle baked his final project. He didn’t mind, content with being nightly dishwasher and occasional delivery order-er, however, every now and then, he makes a valiant attempt at breakfast-in-bed, and wakes Kyle up when he calls the fire department in a panic.

_“In the kitchen, babe.”_

This doesn’t smell like one of Kenny’s blackened and crispy failures. No, spices and herbs drift through the air, seasonings that tingle his nose and wet his tongue. Walking to the kitchen, the aroma concentrates, strengthens, until he recognises it. In Denver, there was this hole-in-the-wall delicatessen, a place that didn’t heavily advertise its authentic cuisine, because the food spoke for itself. Whenever Kyle felt particularly homesick, he’d go in and order something nostalgic, pretending the matzo ball soup in his bowl came from his mother’s stainless-steel stockpot. It was a few blocks away from their apartment then, and it’s a good three-hour drive there-and-back now.

Funny, a Rosh Hashanah morning service can last around the same amount of time.

Kyle feels the smile sneak onto his face, peers at the kitchen table. Only half the food is on a plate, Kenny in the middle of transferring the rest from their bags and containers. Brisket sits on a too small plate, slices of meat sloppily crowded into a pile, all doused in juice. Short stacks of latkes occupy a too large platter, little towers of fried potato set up like a fort, ready to compliment the strips of tender beef. A white box holds a whole honey cake, loaded with sugar and sweetener, a single bite promising diabetic shock. Clumps of _tzimmes_ tumble from plastic cup to ceramic bowl, Kenny probably wondering why Kyle likes carrots drenched in honey, but decidedly upholding the sacred principle of _to each their own_.

Kenny looks up from the bits of chopped orange, his gaze shifting to Kyle. Sweat greases blond hair, and violet accents blue eyes, but Kenny couldn’t look happier. Kyle’s stupidly happy expression rubs off on him, Kenny taking pride in every ounce of joy brimming in those green eyes. A smirk teases at his lips, “So did ya get me the honey sticks?”

Kyle pulls out a chair, rolls his eyes as he sits. He plucks two plastic tubes of honey from his pocket, watches Kenny’s eyes glimmer. An eager hand reaches out, but Kyle holds the honey sticks away, playfully twisting them between his fingers. Kenny pouts, and Kyle drawls, “Y’know, I already said _yes_ to marrying you, right? You don’t need to do crap like this.”

“I don’t,” Kenny shrugs, casual, nonchalant. Then, in a blink, he leans in close, leaving barely any distance. Kenny’s like a shot of whiskey, a whiff enough to make him dizzy, a sip enough to sear his throat. Kyle can get drunk off just the heat of his lips, the taste of his breath, “But you love when I do.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Kyle says, because it’s true, because Kyle loves Kenny pulling this saccharine shit, because Kyle loves Kenny to a cloying extreme. They both laugh when they kiss, probably look as dumb as they feel, not that they care, not that it matters. All they feel is apples and honey and how much they love each other. _L’shanah tovah_.


End file.
